


i got a man to stick it out (sha-boom, sha-boom)

by Riseupwithfists



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Fix-It, M/M, love in a shack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-15
Updated: 2011-12-15
Packaged: 2017-10-27 08:51:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/293935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riseupwithfists/pseuds/Riseupwithfists
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What could have been if Julian Fellowes didn’t hate everything I loved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i got a man to stick it out (sha-boom, sha-boom)

**Author's Note:**

> For how short this is, it was rather hard to get back into the swing of writing again. Huzzah for me, maybe? This is smooshy as hell, by the way, if you hadn’t already realized from the fact that the title is from a Feist song. God help me.

There was never a terribly clear picture in Thomas’ head when it came to his aspirations once the war ended. Cloudy ideals, yes,vague schemes of striking while the iron was hot (though exactly where to strike the iron was somewhat a mystery). One thing was clear to him, however: Thomas Barrow would bow to no man, not ever again.

That particular Thomas would no doubt blanch in horror at the sight of himself now, tramping about in the middle of some godforsaken Yorkshire woods, half-lost and calf-deep in muck and - Good God, here comes the hound. As if in some terrible slow-motion nightmare, the dog comes bounding out of the high grass and straight for Thomas, mud bursting every which way in a fashion that threatens to evoke memories he should’ve stomped down ages ago. He clenches his hands until the bad one twinges in return; somehow that brings him back.

Those few lost moments have cost him the time to evade the dog. With a terrible bay (somewhat akin to Carson when faced with broken china) Thomas is set upon by sodden paws and a terrible tongue.

It turns out that Edward isn’t far behind the cur, striding forward with a surety that almost erases the fact of the stick he wields. “There you are!” Thomas can’t tell whether Edward’s speaking to him or the hound, but then the canine attack on his person ceases and Edward tussles about with the dog in the dirt.

“Who’s a good boy, a brilliant boy?” Said brilliant boy promptly flops to the muddy ground and slavishly licks his privates; let it never be said that the former Lieutenant Courtnay is in any way an accurate judge of character. If he were, after all, Thomas most likely wouldn’t be here.

“Your dog slathered mud all over my coat.” Thomas waits for Edward to claim yet again that the dog is _their_ dog. Instead, Edward comes over and inspects the sorry state of Thomas with a brisk hand.

“Well,” he says with that cocksure yet terribly pleasant way of his, “what else is a coat for?”

“I think I liked you better when you sat around and moped all day.”

Edward shrugs Thomas’ crankiness off and beams as he somehow finds the least decrepit tree stump to sit upon. He pats the wood beside him; Thomas follows as dutifully as the damned dog.

Every smile he receives, Thomas supposes, should make him feel grateful for all the tiny good deeds he’d committed in his sinful little life, for every time he let William off easy or resisted the urge to tangle with Bates. But he’d never been a grateful boy, nor a good one.

And if he were a good boy, those smiles, along with the automatic trust that of course (of course) they’ll be returned in kind, wouldn’t feel quite so gratifying.

Thomas gets his fill of Edward gazing upwards, sure as he could see the sky, before interrupting. “We’ll catch our death if we’re out much longer.” It’s a much more gracious way of saying “get me out of this hellish landscape and in front of a nice fire”.

“Oh, not quite yet.” Eager as a schoolboy, Edward is. Thomas gets the idea of the boy he once was, running breakneck through his family’s grounds, clear eyes gobbling up all that he can manage. He still does manage to soak up everything about him, even when Thomas isn’t filling in the gaps of his senses. He’s awfully keen like that. (He’s awfully a lot of things.) “We simply must ford the creek, it’s just up ahead.” Through the sharpest brambles and stickiest spiderwebs imaginable, no doubt. “We’ll ford the creek together, and you shall tell me whether there are any fish. And perhaps we’ll be lucky enough to find a frog.”

“Lucky me,” Thomas replies, and while the old sarcasm can’t help but stain the words, Edward only tsks and pats Thomas’ bad hand (the favorite, Edward insists, being the sentimental sod that he is).

“Lucky us, you mean.”

And while Thomas won’t give him the satisfaction of a spoken answer, the press of his mouth into the sweep of Edward’s unruly hair is, above all things, an acquiescence.


End file.
